The War For Peninsular Point
by Beloved of Eireann
Summary: The city of Peninsular Point, Virginia, is home to a half-dozen ethnic mafias. When they start going at it, needless to say, it doesn't end well. Rated T for language, violence, and possible future character death.
1. Chapter 1- Joe McDonnell

_**Right, I'm once again starting a new story instead of updating the ones I already have. I'm awful, I know, but I promised Newt. Newt, this is for you. This story contains borrowed OCs, whose creators will be credited as their characters are introduced.**_

Chapter 1- Joe McDonnell

Peninsular Point, Virginia, was a city on par with San Diego, California, in size: about a million inhabitants. It boasted a bustling seaport and a college campus of some repute, as well as thriving Irish, Chinese, Italian, German, and Russian communities,

However, the city's ethnic diversity also gave rise to each major group running an organized crime syndicate to further their own interests. The police tried their best to control the situation, but with little success.

At the Peninsular Point Police Department on C Street, the new commissioner, David Gilman, was looking intently at a grainy photo of a tall, sandy-haired man with dark blue eyes. There was a hand-written note on the back of the photo- '_Irish mob leader- Michael Davitt. Alias?_' It had been taken two years previous by a plainclothes police officer, and was the only known picture of the man who called himself Michael Davitt. Gilman also considered it worth noting that the photographer had disappeared after taking the picture, and found two weeks later, floating in Chesapeake Bay with a bullet in his head.

Gilman put the photo back into a manila folder labeled '_Irish Mob, Peninsular Point- Highly Dangerous._' He then stood and walked out of his office.

There was only one officer at his desk when Gilman looked over- 22-year-old Jordan O'Malley, who, despite having grown up in the Northeast Corner (a region very much under the control of the Irish mob), was a loyal and conscientious officer.

"O'Malley," the commissioner said, "how long have you been in here?"

"Uh… 'bout foive hours, boss…" Jordan frowned. "'M Oi in trouble, Mr. Gilman?"

"No, no… far from it. In fact, I wish we had more like you."

"Ah, Oi ain't all Oi'm made out ta be, boss." O'Malley stood. "Walk ye to yer car, sir?"

"No need, it's only a few hundred feet. Go back to work, O'Malley." Gilman put on his overcoat and walked out to the lot, where he saw two men standing by his car, almost as though f they were waiting for him.

"Can I help you?"

"Aye, Mr. Gilman, Oi think ye can," the shorter of the two said. There was something about his manner which threw Gilman off, and the feeling was only made worse when he drew a 9mm Glock out of his coat and aimed it at the police commissioner. "Unlock yer car," the man ordered.

Gilman reached for his service pistol, but the taller man said, "I really wouldn't do that, sir. My friend here has a _very_ nervous trigger finger."

Gilman looked from the man's pistol to his car, then pulled out his keys.

"Good man," the taller one said. "Let him past, John."

"Piss off," John said, but did as he was told. "Unlock the car an' git in the passenger's seat," he ordered. "'F Oi need ter tell ye twoice, yer kneecap'll make a new friend."

Gilman did as he was told and the two men got in with him; John in the back, and the other man driving.

They took him from the lot to the intersection of 12th and B, where he saw a small building called McSweeney's with Irish flags hanging over the doors.

"Get out here," the taller man said, "and we'll park your car. The keys'll be with the man at the door when you leave."

John's message was a bit more direct. "Move yer goddam arse."

The commissioner got out and walked into the building. There was a young man inside, who looked very similar to the man John in the car, albeit an inch or so shorter.

"Dia duit, Mr. Gilman," he said. "Yer expected in the proivate room in the back. Bit Oi'll have ter take yer pistol." He held out his hand for the weapon, and Gilman handed it over resignedly.

"Alroight, head on back."

Gilman did so, finding the door labeled '_Private Room: Keep Out,_' as well as '_Seomra Príobháideacha: Coinnigh Amach_,' which was presumably the same message. The police commissioner pushed the door open and walked in.

Sitting at the table was a man of about 50 years and six feet tall. He held up a hand in greeting.

"Come set yerself down, Mr. Gilman."

"Who are you?" the policeman demanded.

"Joe McDonnell. Oi'm a… representative, ye could say, o' the man ye know as Mick Davitt."

"Is that your real name?"

The man smiled. "No, it isn'. Set yerself down."

Gilman sat, and McDonnell said, "Mr. Gilman, there're two paths on which we stand on the doivergence. On one path, we kin be good friends, an' we'll give ye no trouble. On the other, Mick Davitt will bring the full force'f his organoization against ye." McDonnell smiled slightly. "Which kin on'y end badly. Fer ye, that is."

"Are you threatening me?" Gilman asked, rising angrily.

"No, Oi'm simply appraisin' ye'f the facts. Look the other way an' let us go abirt our business, an' yer men'll all make't home safe each noight. Or test us, an' we'll make this city Hell on Earth."

Gilman looked down at McDonnell, who was sitting calmly at the table. "I don't take well to blackmail, Mr. McDonnell, or whoever you are. And I _don't _make deals with criminals." He turned to leave, but heard the other man's voice turn cold.

"Alroight, Mr. Gilman, how's this fer a threat: 172 J Street, room 421. We know where yer son goes ta school, where yer house is, where yer woife works- everythin'. Think on _tha'_ before ye try us, Mr. Gilman." He raised his voice. "Clarke! Show Mr. Gilman to 'is car!"

The man came in and led the commissioner from the pub, then gave him his gun and keys.

David Gilman got in and drove off angrily. Michael Davitt and Joe McDonnell, he thought. Now he had some names.

_**OCs from other people in this chapter:**_

_**The Unnamed Man belongs to Greygreenwolf, and his name and other information will be revealed in Chapter 2.**_


	2. Chapter 2- Gathering Storm

_**Edited version of this chapter is edited.**_

Chapter 2- Gathering Storm

Padraic Lawrence O'Malley, alias John Kelly (Kelly, quite by coincidence, was his mother's maiden name), walked back from McSweeney's with his partner, Will Kirkland, alias Edward Teach.

The two young men, along with about 10% of the city's population, worked for Padraic's uncle Seán O'Malley, the Irish mob's Council Chairman, although with English, Scots, and Welsh families holding 3 of the 9 Council seats, it wasn't an exclusively Irish organization anymore. The snatch and delivery of David Gilman had been ordered by him in order to make sure that the man knew how things stood in O'Malley's city. The last commissioner had chosen to let the Organization do its business in peace, but Padraic had the feeling that this Gilman wouldn't be so accommodating.

"Ye think there's gonna be a scrap, Ed?" Padraic asked. Organization rules said that no real names were to be used while on Organization business, and Seán O'Malley's rules were broken at the breaker's peril.

"What'd McDonnell say the terms were?" Will asked.

"Mmm… Oi talked ter Davitt before we left… He said Gilman has a week ter decoide whit his role'll be in the city. If he doesn' let us be, it'll mean war."

"Between us and the city?"

"Aye. The Russians'll come down on our soide, though; Davitt an' Braginski have an… accord o' sorts."

"Means the Chinese and Americans will go against us, if shit starts going down…"

"Davitt's sent Drake an' O'Hanlon ter the Germans, an' O'Connor an' South ter the Italians ter try an' keep 'em out'f anythin'," Padraic said.

"Won't do any good; Bielschmidt figures we're too close with the Russians," Will said thoughtfully. "If anything, they'll go against us, and we'll be stuck with Vargas' men."

"An' then God have mercy on our souls."

Will laughed and nodded, then looked up at the building at which they had arrived- Headquarters. "Anyway, see you around. Tell your brother to turn in that report by Friday, or Davitt'll have all our hides."

"Aye. Slán, Ed." Padraic left his partner and went up to his office, sitting down heavily in his desk chair. His cat, Tom Cloney, was sitting on Padraic's keyboard, staring intently at him.

"Hey there, little guy," Padraic said, scratching Tom's ears. "Ye miss me whoile Oi was out?" The cat purred and butted into his hand. "Aye, Oi figured ye would, _mo chara_," the Irishman said, smiling softly. "Yer a loyal one."

"Hey, Padraic," said a voice Padraic recognized as his cousin, Edward MacLeod. He looked up from the cat, and saw Ed was standing in the doorway.

"Hey. Whit d'ye need, Eddie?"

"Ah dinnae need anythin'. Yer wanted in the C.C."

"Command wants me? 'M on me way," Padraic said, standing and walking out of the office.

o.o.o.o

"We've an intercepted police message from Commissioner Gilman to the local news stations," Harrison Powell was saying. The Welshman was probably the most level-headed of the nine Council members, and as such, he was normally the one to give briefings.

Dainial Lawrence O'Malley was listening to the briefing from where he was sitting on a desk, his long spindly limbs drawn up around him in a way reminiscent of a praying mantis.

"The message," Powell went on, quelling faint murmurs from the younger Organization memebers, "calls a press conference tomorrow at noon to unveil a, quote, 'radical new solution to the city's crime problem,' unquote. It is very likely that he means to publicly reject the ultimatum the Organization sent him."

"If that happens," Ferris O'Malley said,, stepping up beside Powell and leaning heavily on his cane, "we'll be ready. Moichael!"

Dainial, looked up, with none of the hesitation some of the others had at responding to a code name. "Aye, Harvey?"

"The Council's named ye Armorer. As such, ye'll be in charge'f the weapons an' such. Ye kin git the key at the end o' the briefin'."

"Aye, Captain."

"So," Ferris went on, "if't comes to blows, we will be at war, an' we'll foight accordin'ly. Tha' means hit-an'-run, loightnin' stroikes on enemy positions, an' there will loikely be fatalities."

There were shocked murmurs, and Dainial's cousin Padraic said, "Harvey, the accord between us an' the Russians'll hould, won' it?"

"Aye," Ferris said, "it will. We've worked together enough toimes tha' Braginski won' betray us."

"Any other questions?" Powell asked.

There were none, so as people filtered out of the Command Center, Dainial walked up to Powell. "Oi need the Armory key."

The Welshman handed it to him. "Here you go, Michael."

"_Go raibth maith agat_." Dainial took the key and walked back to his office, where he grabbed a pad of paper and a pen. He then went back to the Armory, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.

He emerged shortly, walking over to the nearest desk and glaring down at its occupant. She was one of Arthur Kirkland's daughters, he saw. He thought her name was Anna or something. "Who the _fuck_," Dainial asked angrily, "has been maintainin' the Armory this whole goddam toime?"

She looked up at him with a 'how the Hell would I know' look on her face.

"How the Hell would I know?"

He made a noise of disgust. "Yer fuckin' useless. C'mon, Oi'm appropriatin' yer toime." He grabbed her shoulder and stalked back to the Armory, showing her how the guns were stacked in careless piles, boxes of ammunition were strewn about on the floor, and how the lights had long since gone out.

"_No_ maintenance," he spat. "C'mon, we're gonna git this organoized- cancel any plans ye had fer the foreseeable future."

Anne rolled her eyes. "Joy."

_**Credit for Anne Kirkland (Durham City) and Will Kirkland (Hartlepool) goes to greygreenwolf.**_


	3. Chapter 3- War

Chapter 3- War

Mark Kirkland really wasn't as bad as everyone- 'everyone' mainly referring to overprotective big brothers of girls he knew- said that he was. He was a bit overly fond of women, perhaps, but he had never actually _done _anything to them, so there was no reason to treat him like he was some sort of horrible pervert.

None of this was any comfort, however, when Eric O'Malley came walking up to him with fire in his eyes and a vein pulsing dangerously in his temple.

"_Kirkland!_" Eric roared, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

Mark eyed him warily. O'Malley was the same age as him, with a characteristically thin O'Malley frame that belied his strength and skill as a boxer.

"Aye…?" Mark asked cautiously.

Without a word, Eric lashed out with his infamous right hook, audibly breaking the bone in Mark's nose and cracking the one in his left cheek. Mark went down like a sack of flour, unprepared to be struck with such force.

The Irishman bent over his victim and said with deadly calm, "Stay. The fuck. Away from. Me sister."

"Which one…? You've got three," Mark pointed out reasonably, trying to ignore the pain radiating out from his broken nose. As annoyed as he was, it probably wasn't a good idea to antagonize Eric further.

Eric, however, was not in a reasonable mood. "Clár, the one ye've been harassin' fer_three fuckin' months!_If Oi see ye near her again, or'f Oi git word ye've been within 20 feet'f her, ye'll be lucky'f it's yer goddamn nose Oi break next! Y'understand whit Oi'm sayin'?"

"Would it do me any good to point out that I've never actually touched your sister, or that she's 16 and can take care of herself…?" Mark asked through the pain in his face, which was rapidly spreading.

"No. Keep yer goddamn distance, got't?" With that, Eric turned on his heel and walked away, muttering to himself and leaving Mark on the ground,

o.o.o.o

The press conference was packed, and through the microphone that had been planted on a reporter in their employ, Niall O'Malley could hear the buzz of conversation between various TV, newspaper, and radio men.

"Remind me again," Harrison Powell said, from his seat opposite Niall, "why we have to listen to this now?"

"'Cause Oi wanna hear whit Gilman says," Seán O'Malley said simply. For his brothers, that was the end of the matter. Seán was the head of the family, despite being the youngest. He had been handpicked and trained by their Uncle Robert to act as his successor, both within the Organization and without. As such, his word was law.

Arthur Kirkland, however, did not feel the same family loyalty. In addition, he was was still more than a bit resentful about the way he had been, as he saw it, forced into the Organization. True, this viewpoint was accurate, but that was beside the point.

"We could just listen to this on the news report when it comes out," he said.

"Oi prefer ter do m'own editin'," Seán said, clearly indicating that the discussion was over. Arthur had enough sense not to set off the Council Chairman's legendary temper, especially not after the Great Pizzeria Incident of 2008.

"Roight, Gilman's talkin', so shut yer faces," Niall said.

"_Ladies and gentleman,_" the police commissioner said, his voice crackling through the listening device that rested on the middle of the Council table, "_as you know, I've called you here today to unveil my new strategy to combat the rampant crime wave in our city. But before I do, there's something I'd like to share._"

"He's gonna-"

"_Shut up!_" Seán hissed.

"_Less than 72 hours ago, I was approached by two men, one of whom aimed a pistol at my chest__and took me to a bar in the Northeast Corner, where I was told by a man who called himself Joe McDonnell that I was to look the other way whilst__gangs of criminals went about their routines of undermining our society. In addition, I was told that if I did not comply, my life, as well as the lives of my officers, my wife, and our son, would be threatened._"

"Whit a sanctimonious little fuck he is," Óisín O'Malley said in irritation. "Ye'd think we'd actually shot his brat, the way he's carryin' on."

"We don' kill kids," Seán said sharply. "Threats're one thin', bit we'll ne'er pull a trigger on a choild."

"_But I have no intention of caving into the demands of criminals, nor of letting their networks operate freely._"

"Ye'd prefer chaos in tha underworld?" Duncan MacLeod asked the radio. "Óisín's right, warra sanctimonious wee fucker."

"Shut up," Seán ordered.

"_As such, I am declaring total war against the city's criminal organizations. Officers will-_"

Seán turned off the radio. "Tha's all, gentlemen. We are at war." He rose. "Powell, brief the troops. Kirkland, Aodh, Óisín, Oi need ter see ye in m'office." He strode from the Council room, the Organization members outside the room parting before him.

o.o.o.o

"Whit is't, Seán?" Aodh O'Malley, eldest of the six brothers, asked.

"Gilman's son, whit's his name?"

"Um… Joseph, I believe…"

"Age?"

"17."

"He's havin' some trouble a' school, isn' he, bein' a policeman's son?"

"Aye… Where're ye goin' wi' this, Seán?" Aodh asked.

Seán smiled, but that only made him look like a viper showing its fangs. "The three o' ye have 17-year-old children, don' ye?"

"Aye. Oi have Peadar, Óisín has Fionn, an' Arthur has Anne."

"Well, Oi think't may be best if the young Gilman had a few friends, don' ye, brother?" He smiled more widely. "See to't."

_Mark Kirkland (Sunderland) belongs to Greygreenwolf._


	4. Chapter 4- Bonnie and Collins

_**Right, I'd like to thank Greygreenwolf, not only for being my editor, but also for putting up with my incessant need to bounce ideas off of her. Special shoutout to you, Green. Also, because of her, this chapter is pre-edited.**_

Chapter 4- Bonnie and Collins

Anne Kirkland did not enjoy working with Dainial O'Malley. The Irishman was demanding, arrogant, and notoriously short-tempered. Frankly, Anne didn't see any reason why _she _was the one who had to deal with him.

"How many AR-15s're there?" O'Malley asked from where he was mounting a rack on the wall of the armory.

Anne did a quick count. "15. And there's 35 AK-47s, as well as five FN FALs."

"55 assault roifles, 4 snoiper roifles… count the SMGs," he ordered.

Anne grumbled, but did as she was told. The armory contained MP5s, Uzis, and AK-74u's, totaling 45 weapons, which Anne reported.

"An' there's the one M60, the shotguns, an' all the damn pistols…" he checked his inventory, which was resting on his shoe."We got… 290 guns, so'f each man gits one main weapon an' a pistol-"

"- 145 men in the field," Anne finished for him.

"Aye. Ye printed out the sheet loike Oi said?"

"'Course I did," she said, offended that he had to ask.

He finished mounting the rack, on which he placed the Organization's sniper rifles- three Remington 700s and an old, but still lethal, Moisin-Nagant. "Put't up on the insoide'f the armory door."

"You're really making people check guns out of an armory? Pet, I think you're thinking of a damn library."

"Aye, they're gonna check out the damn guns. This's gonna be an organoized system, dammit! Oi'm the damn Armorer, Oi'm gonna know who's armed, an' when, an' with whit."

"Since when're you OCD about- well, anything?"

"Since bullets don't grow on fuckin' trees!"he snapped. "Chroist, put up the damn sheet, will ye?"

She did as he said, albeit with an exasperated eye roll. "Fine, fine."

"Good." O'Malley looked around, apparently satisfied with what he saw. Anne repressed a comment about how it had to be a first.

"Roight now, Oi think-"

The armory door flew open, and Anne needed to jump back to avoid being hit as Dan's cousin Rút ran in, eyes glinting.

"Jasus, Dan, yer missin' the craic!" he said.

"'S goin' on?"

"Shots foired a' 7thand H. Police're gone, an' now O'Hanlon's sendin' a patrol ter scope't out."

"7than' H… tha's the little dip inter Choinese territory, isn' it?"

"Aye. Oi'm ter git… two sawed-off shotguns, an FAL, and two AK-74u's, 's well's foive 1911s."

Dainial nodded. "Fill out the sheet," he said and explained the process. As Rút did as his cousin asked, he retrieved the weapons his cousin asked for, as well as a Glock 9mm, an Uzi, a .44 Magnum, and an AK-47, handing the Glock and Uzi to Anne." "C'mon, Kirkland, we're goin' too."

Anne arched an eyebrow. "You're inviting _me_?"

"Huh? Tá tú ag tabhairt an Sasanach?" Rút asked. "Tá tú cinnte go bhfuil an smaoineamh maith, Dan?"

Anne glowered. "It's rude to talk about someone in a language they don't understand."

"Both o' ye, shut up. An' aye, c'mon the lot o' ye," Dan told them.

They left Headquarters in a van with blacked-out windows, driving to the corner of 7thand H Streets, where Dan, Rút, Anne, and three of the other men climbed out. The driver stayed in the van, sub-machinegun on his lap.

"So, who started shootin'?" Dan asked.

"Choinese foired on a police vehicle when't passed through their terr- HIT THE DIRT!"

A shot rang out and, as the patrol flattened themselves, a bullet caught one of the men- Anne thought his name was McLean- in the stomach, and he went down as if his bones had vanished. Blood welled up in the wound, pooling out onto the pavement.

"_Fuck_!" Rút said angrily, "Return foire!" he shouted, firing his FAL blindly at the buildings on the corner.

"Where?" Dan asked. "Denny, 't's a damn snoiper, we need ter git ta-"

CRACK! Another shot came from the building and ricocheted off the asphalt, missing the patrol. The sniper was apparently not a very good one.

"Denny, O'Donnell, Bonnie- wi' me," Dan ordered immediately, raising himself off the ground and rushing the building where he had seen a muzzle flash, AK in hand. Rút followed him closely, with Anne and O'Donnell not far behind.

Dan kicked in the door, aiming his AK at various objects in the foyer. "Empty. C'mon, let's sweep the house. O'Donnell, take the basement an' ground floor, Denny, floor two ta four, an' Bonnie, yer wi' me."

"Jist who's leadin' this patrol?" Rút grumbled.

Dan turned on him. "GODDAMMIT, RÚT, DO'S OI TELL YE!" He grabbed Anne's shoulder and propelled her up the stairs, passing her at the landing between the third and fourth floors.

They came to a door. "Ye know procedure?"

"Aye. You go high, I'll go low."

Dan broke the door in, and they saw four very startled Chinese men, but not the sniper.

Anne pointed her Uzi, and Dan his AK, into the room. "Hands up, this's a raid," the Irishman ordered. "Bonnie, collect their guns, Oi'll cover ye."

One of the Chinese pulled a pistol but, before he could fire, Anne pulled her trigger. The bullet slashed through his shoulder, causing pain but no serious damage.

"Oi," Dan said, his finger on the trigger tightening, "would nawr have done tha'f Oi were ye…"

_**Translations:**_

_**Craic- Fun- Gaelic**_

_**Tá tú ag tabhairt an Sasanach- You're bringing the Sasanach [Saxon/Englishman]- Gaelic**_

_**Tá tú cinnte go bhfuil an smaoineamh maith, Dan?- Are you sure that's a good idea, Dan?- Gaelic**_


	5. Chapter 5- Massacre on 7th Street

_**Chapter update has been posted at long last.**_

Chapter 5- Massacre on 7th Street

Dainial's finger tightened on the trigger. CRACK! The rifle leapt, and a bullet slammed into the chest of the man who had pulled the pistol. He fell like a marionette whose strings had been cut, and his comrades cried out in shock and anger.

"Up against the wall," Dan ordered angrily. When the Chinese hesitated, he thundered, "Oi said against the _fuckin' wall!"_With that, he walked over to one of the men and struck him across the face with the stock of his AK-47.

The Chinese obeyed the order slowly, standing with their faces towards the wall. Dainial pulled the switch on his rifle to automatic with a loud 'clack!'

"Collins," Anne said, "are you sure this is a good-"

"Shut up." He raised the rifle, looked down the sight, and squeezed the trigger.

CRACK CRACK CRACK CRACK CRACK CRACK CRACK! The gun barked, and the Chinese men jerked and fell, arterial blood spraying from the ragged holes left by hollowpoint rounds in O'Malley's rifle.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" Anne said. She backed up, and O'Donnell came running up the stairs.

"Oi heard shots- Chroist, Mick!"

"Bastards pulled a gun on me." Dainial left the room. Anne and O'Donnell stood frozen for a moment, then heard a door being thrown open, an 'clack!' and another gunshot. The pair hurried into the room next door.

Dainial was standing over another man- not Chinese, perhaps Japanese or Korean- who was stone-dead with a bullet in his spine. A sniper rifle lay by his side, and the van was clearly visible through the window.

"Found the snoiper."

"Fucksake, Collins, yer gonna bring the peelers back here!" O'Donnell said. "C'mon, let's git Lacey, pick up McLean an' the others, an' haul arse back ta base." He had fallen into a calculating tone at the last few words, clearly thinking about whether if they had left any evidence behind that would associate the killings with the Organization.

"Aye," Dan said.

The three Irishmen and the English girl rendezvoused and ran back to the van, where they found McLean and the rest of the patrol waiting.

"Ye did first aid?" Dan asked.

"Aye," one of the men who had stayed behind said, "let's go."

As they drove off, Anne asked, "Do we take McLean to the hospital?"

The others looked at her as if she were crazy. "Hospitals hafta report gunshot wounds ter the police, as ye should bloody know by now. Besoides, we got a clinic back't HQ," Rút explained.

Rút turned to Dainial. "Why the fuck did you-"

"Ye pull a gun on me, ye git shot. Simple's tha'. Besoides, Oi ain't incloined ter be lenient wi' the Choinese." With that, he fell into cryptic silence.

o.o.o.o

Jordan O'Malley unfolded the newspaper as he sat down at his desk in the police station, and immediately swore heavily. 'FIVE MEN KILLED ON 7TH STREET- MOB INVOLVMENT PRESUMED,' the headline screamed.

"Ah, Chroist's blood…" He stood, pulled out his personal phone, and punched a number into it as he walked out of the building. After a moment, the other line picked up.

"'Lo?"

"Fer fucksake, Da, whit the fuck happened?"

Jordan's father, Dennis O'Malley, answered drily, "Well, besoides the Fifth Commandment bein' repealed, ye don' hafta worry. 'S been taken care of."

"'Taken care of,' Da? Ye realoize Oi may be called out ter investigate this? Whit the fuck'm Oi supposed ter do then?"

"Tell the truth- ye dunno whit happened, 'cept whit ye read in the papers." With that, Dennis hung up.

Jordan grumbled angrily under his breath.

"O'Malley!"

The young officer looked up and saw Commissioner Gilman standing in the door of the commissioner's office, looking out at the squad room.

"Aye, Boss?"

"C'mere a minute, would you?"

When O'Malley walked over to the office, Gilman said, "You grew up in the Northeast Corner, right?"

"Aye, sir. Why?"

"Because we found six different people's blood at the scene- the five dead men's, and one other, out on the street- one Derek McLean, who lives in a building on 11th street; I was wondering if you might know him."

"McLean… m'father's best man was named Stephen McLean, mebbe they're related. Ne'er met the man, though. Whole family've got a reputation fer gittin' drunk an' then gittin' themselves killed." He frowned. "Sir?"

"Yeah?"

"How'd ye git a match?"

"Hm? Oh, turns out the man donated blood, so he was in the system. Lucky break, huh?"

"Aye, sir. Lucky…"

o.o.o.o

"A fuckin'_blood donor_?" Seán O'Malley thundered, standing over the bed in which Derek McLean was recovering. O'Malley went on, "Whit the _fuck _were ye thinkin'? Are ye really so _abysmally fuckin' stupid _tha' ye'd give yer blood ter the _first fuckin' place _the peelers go ter foind matches? Oi mean, Jesus fuckin' Chroist! Oi didn' think't was _possible _fer anyone ter be this _fuckin' _stupid, but Oi guess Oi was wrong, because _here we fuckin' stand!_" He pounded a fist on the bedside table. "Gimme _one fuckin' reason _Oi shouldn' have ye taken out back an' shot!"

McLean stared, eyes wide with fear. "I- I- I-"

"Oh,fer fucksake!" When he had left the clinic, Seán shouted, "_Powell_!"

The Welshman came over calmly. "Yeah, O'Malley?"

"Keep McLean a' yer house until this mess blows o'er; Oi don' think they'll look fer 'im there. Keep 'im insoide, away from windows. Oi don' want _any _mistakes on this."

"Of course, O'Malley."

Powell left, and Seán said to himself, "Chroist…"


	6. Chapter 6- Joe Gilman

_**Right, here's a new chapter, pre-edited and updated with the help of my extremely pedantic editor. Thanks a whole hell of a lot, Green.**_

Chapter 6- Joe Gilman

The first blow came from nowhere- a fist lashed out and struck Joseph Gilman on the back of the neck, sending the boy sprawling to the floor of the school corridor.

After that, it was a flurry of fists, feet, and thrown objects, all accompanied by a cacophony of insults and profanity. Joe curled up to protect his face and groin, like his father had taught him to do if he was attacked.

His father- actually, his father was precisely the problem. It had been bad enough being the son of a police captain in his old school back in New York, but when his father had brought them to Virginia and had been promoted to Commissioner, the mutters had become full-out curses, and angry glares had morphed into blows. The abuse continued for what felt like forever, until a thickly accented voice shouted, "_Enough!_"

Joe looked up hesitantly, and saw Alex O'Malley, flanked by two of his cousins, Eric and Peadar. Despite standing at 5'6" and being thin to the point of emaciation, Alex was an imposing figure, and was regarded by most at the school with a mixture of respect and fear.

"McCarthy!" Alex snapped, walking up to the ringleader of Joe's abusers. He was a football player who was a good seven inches taller and 90 pounds heavier than O'Malley was. Nevertheless, McCarthy stepped back warily.

"McCarthy, whit the _Hell _d'ye think yer doin'?"

"Um, O'Malley, we were just, uh…"

"Actually, Oi know damn well whit ye were doin, ye goddamn waste'f oxygen! Yer makin' a goddamn scene in the middle'f a corridor, beatin' the shit out'f a man who's ne'er so much as _stepped on yer goddamn toes!_"

"Alex, his father's the-"

"_Oi know who his father is!_" O'Malley thundered. "D'ye know who _my _father is, McCarthy? 'Cause tha' should be a _bit _more'f a concern fer ye, ye worthless sack o' horseshit!"

McCarthy paled. Alex's father, Dennis O'Malley, was the head coach of the football team. However, McCarthy's fear seemed unreasonable compared to the unlikely chance of his being cut from the football team. Back in New York, that wasn't cause to step back almost a foot and swallow audibly.

"Now all o' ye listen up!" Alex roared at the crowd. "Oi don' wanna see or hear abirt any more o' this bullshit, got't? Joseph Gilman's nawr ta be touched! Oi don' give a flyin' fuck if ye loike him, but if he has any more trouble, ye'nd Oi are gonna be havin' words, d'Oi make m'self clear?" He turned to his cousin. "Eric!"

Without a word, the boxer lashed out with his right fist, hitting McCarthy squarely in the nose, and the huge boy went down.

"Clear off!" Alex ordered the crowd. It hurried to obey, watched as they were by Peadar O'Malley's angry glare. When they were gone, the Irish boy bent down. "Kin ye stand?" Now that everyone had left, his voice was significantly less angry.

"Yeah…" Joe climbed to his feet, wincing. "Thanks for helping me out…"

"Aye, no problem. McCarthy ain't fit ta lick yer boots, there's no reason ye should have ta put up wi' his goddam bullshit." He held out his hand. "Ye need anythin, or'f anyone troies pullin' this shit again, ye lemme know, hear?"

Joe took the proffered appendage. "Yeah, sure thing…"

It seemed he had gained an extremely profane guardian angel.

o.o.o.o

That same day, at lunch, Joe was putting his books back into his locker when he felt a tap at his shoulder. He flinched and turned around, then saw a boy who stood at about 5'5".

"You're to come with me," he said dispassionately, and then walked off. Joe followed him, mostly out of curiosity, and the boy led him to a spot where three lunch tables were all pushed together. There were about 20 people crowded around them, and Joe knew by now that there would likely be some sort of violence before too long.

"Go on, sit," the boy said, taking a seat at the edge of the closer bench. The others shifted aside to give him room. Joe looked around and walked over a seat next to Alex O'Malley, who was sitting at the center of the cluster.

"Ah, Gilman, come set here by me!" Alex said jovially. After Joe had taken his seat, Alex went on "Welcome t'our little oisland! Everyone!" When Alex spoke, everyone paid close attention , conversation dying off quickly. "This's Joe Gilman. He's gonna be part'f our family from now on, an' Oi expect he'll be treated as such. Got't, y'intolerable bastards?" He made a sweeping gesture with his left hand that encompassed all the people at the three tables. "This's me family, Joe- m'brother Jason, m'sister Tara, m'cousins Peadar, Killian, Lorcán, Fionn, Ellie, Pilip, Cathal, Sorely, Eric, Clár, an' Agnes an' Charlie MacLeod. Then, there's Matt Powell an' the spawn'f the Sasanach- Mark, Anne, Bernard, an' Ben Kirkland." Ben was the boy who had brought Joe to the table, and he glared at Alex when he made the jibe about being a 'Sasanach.' Joe suddenly remembered where he had heard the term before.

Trying to make sense of the whole situation, Joe asked, "Sasanach, that's an Irish word, right?"

Anne Kirkland glared at him evilly. "D'I look like a feckin' Irishman to you?"

"Uh…"

Peadar O'Malley grinned lopsidedly. "Please, ye should be so damn lucky."

"Shut your goddam mouth, we owned your arses for centuries."

"Aye, an' all't took was mass murder, starvation, an' genocoide," said one of the boys Alex had introduced. He was small, but his eyes were blazing. Joe thought his name was Cathal, or maybe Sorely.

"At least we had the balls to do it," Anne snapped.

"So," Eric said savagely, "Ye think whit Cromwell did took balls?"

The name had an effect on the whole group- Peadar flinched heavily, Agnes MacLeod paled, and even Anne faltered for a moment, her glare softening. She plowed on, however. "Yeah, actually. Who else would've been mad enough ta fight you lot?"

"That wasn' war, tha' was bloody slaughter!"

"And how is sneaking around blowing people war, huh?"

Eric's jaw tightened and his fist clenched, and Joe thought he was going to beat the life out of the smaller girl next to him.

The attack, however, came from Charlie MacLeod. He threw the sandwich that had previously been lying half-eaten in front of Matt Powell, and the beefy projectile struck Anne in the side of the head.

The girl turned and spat in rage, "MacLeod, yeh feckin' Scots bastard, Ah'm gonna tear out yer bloody vocal chords and use 'em as me brother's damn _guitar strings_!"

"Come on, then!" Charlie shot back.

Joe was feeling very overwhelmed by the sudden escalation of events, as well as the apparently old history between the others. There were six people separating Anne from Charlie, but the girl got up, walked calmly over to the Scots boy, and began beating him about the head and shoulders with her lunch bag.

Joe looked at Alex, assuming that the older boy would do something to stop the fight, but he was disappointed. Alex simply roared with laughter, making no effort to prevent Anne's attempted murder of Charlie, while the boy attempted to ward her off with his lunch bag. In fact, most of the tables' occupants were laughing. Only Bernard Kirkland seemed to have any desire for his sister to stop, but he was clearly reluctant to get involved. Joe looked around for a teacher to stop the violence, but there were none in the vicinity.

Soon, though, Charlie had fallen off of the bench, protecting his face with his arms as Anne spat abuse and hit him repeatedly. It was clear that she was no longer exercising any restraint, and Alex seemed to have had enough.

"Cathal, Killian, pull her off!" he ordered. The two boys hastened to rescue their cousin from the foaming-mouthed girl, but she elbowed Killian in the solar plexus, and barely missed Cathal with a sideswipe from her clenched fist. Joe was surprised that Cathal was trying to restrain her. He was a good two years or so younger than Anne, and not a whole lot bigger.

Cathal swore and hissed, "Fiabhras Dubh ghlacann tú!" He reached into one of the pockets of the black overcoat that all O'Malley men seemed to wear copies of, regardless of the summer heat. From it, he drew out what appeared to be a piece of black plastic. Its innocent appearance vanished, however, when he pressed a catch on it, and a gleaming steel blade shot out. "Oy, Cathal!" Alex shouted. "Put tha' damn thing away!" He stood, and everyone became very quiet. Even Anne stopped attacking Charlie and looked at Cathal warily.

Cathal spat something Joe couldn't understand, and Alex replied, "Oi don' give a damn, Cathal. Put't away, _now_."

The boy obeyed, though he was visibly reluctant. This seemed to surprise everyone, except for Alex, who wore a self-assured smile.

"Lessee… Eric, Pilip, Fionn, Gilman, an'… Kirkland," he said, indicating Bernard with the last name, "come wi' me." He turned and walked away, clearly accustomed to his instructions' being obeyed without question.

The others he had indicated did follow, as if it were an ingrained instinct. Fionn, the only girl of Alex's selected, nudged Joe as she passed him. He got to his feet and followed. When they were a ways way from the others, Alex asked, "Gilman, how old're ye?"

"17, why…?"

"Roight. An' Kirkland, yer 16?"

"Yeah," Bernard said, appearing to understand Alex's motives without being told.

"Hm…" Alex pulled out his phone and tossed it to Pilip. "Call in an' excuse Kirkland. Use 'is father's voice."

Pilip nodded and dialed a number. When a faint "_Hello?_" came through, he spoke, sounding like a man from a well-off region of England.

"Hello, this is Arthur Kirkland. I'm afraid I have to have my son Bernard excused from the school for the rest of the day; he has a doctor's appointment."

"_Alright, Mr. Kirkland, we'll have a pass sent to him. Will you be picking him up?_"

"No, the doctor's not far from the school, he can walk."

"_Alright, Mr. Kirkland_."

"Thank you. Goodbye." Pilip hung up and returned Alex's phone.

"What's going on, Alex?" Joe asked.

Eric smiled for the first time Joe had seen, and he spoke before Alex did, drawing an annoyed glare from the other boy. "If yer 17 or 18, ye kin soign yerself outta school. Kirkland's 16, so he needs a parent, or someone who _sounds_ loike a parent, ter call th'office an' let him out."

"Yeah, but _why_?"

Alex shrugged. "'Cause Oi'm bored, an' Bernard's the on'y Kirkland Oi kin stand bein' around fer more'n a few minutes."

"Don't ye have Economics wi' Mark?" Fionn asked.

"Aye. Yer point?"

"So, that lasts an hour. How do you do that every day if you can't stand to spend more than a few minutes with him?"

"I meant, why are we signing out of school?" Joe asked before Alex could respond, running out of patience.

Alex shrugged again. "Why not? This place kin kiss me stanky-"

"_Alex_!" Fionn said sharply.

"Sorry, Mam's from Chicago," Alex said, shifting topics seamlessly. "Anyways, let's go. Gilman, ye go first, then after foive minutes Eric, then Pilip after foive more, then Fionn, then me. Kirkland, ye'll hafta wait 'til the note comes." With that, he grinned and waved Joe away, not seeming to realize that he was suggesting went against everything Joe had been told for the last 17 years. "Let's move out!"


End file.
